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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23215312">fugue</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/inexorableformation/pseuds/inexorableformation'>inexorableformation</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Overwatch (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/F, Mind Control Aftermath &amp; Recovery, not everything is amazing yet but they're getting there, this is in my drafts as fancy spiderbyte and thats what it is honestly</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 10:28:22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>915</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23215312</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/inexorableformation/pseuds/inexorableformation</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>there are moments that even Talon can't reach.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sombra | Olivia Colomar/Widowmaker | Amélie Lacroix</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>30</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>fugue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>hi i love them that's all</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Do you think he knows his waistcoat clashes with his shoes?"</p><p>"The pink and the orange? It's atrocious."</p><p>"What about the one with the vintage leopard print?"</p><p>"I think this fool has transcended vintage and reached 'antiquated'."</p><p>"More 'last century' than 'last year'?"</p><p>"Oui."</p><p>Sombra touches her arm and points down from the balcony at another poor unfortunate soul on the dance floor.</p><p>"That one is wearing my dear departed abuela's rug," she says. "But <em>after</em> the dog vomited on it."</p><p>"<em>Déchets</em>. All of it is trash."</p><p>"Aww, don't be like that! My abuela loved that thing."</p><p>Widow chuckles, her palm flat and the tips of her long fingers pressed to her mouth. It can't hide her smile, her lidded eyes. Sombra reaches for her free hand- she is allowed to, now- and lifts it to her lips, barely brushing them against the skin.</p><p>Widow's sharp golden eyes watch her like a hawk. Warm, still, pleased.</p><p>The two of them sit far above the festivities, tucked away in a loge separated even from the people to their left and right. Lavish velvet curtains everywhere and an excellent bird's eye view on the dancing couples, the lone attendants drinking champagne out of crystal glasses.</p><p>Talon doesn't reach up here, not in any way that counts. It's just them, alone, in their matching dresses.</p><p>"It's not for anyone down there," Widow said as they walked in with their arms interlinked. It has been an hour; the seats are comfortable and the drinks expensive.</p><p>"What's this brand?" Sombra asks and sips more of her champagne. "I don't think I recognize it."</p><p>Widow tastes it again as well.</p><p>"I do not think this is something you find in stores, chérie."</p><p>"Fancy."</p><p>"Oui, the fanciest."</p><p>Sombra smiles at her. Then she tips back her glass and chugs the champagne. Widow properly laughs this time, only half as dignified. There's a warm glow about the room, the lights gleaming like stars. They reflect in the crystal, their earrings, the chandelier over the dance floor.</p><p>Sombra leans forward, glances over the railing.</p><p>"Now would you look at that," she says and rest her head on her palm. "Moira's getting ready to tear it up."</p><p>Widow grimaces.</p><p>"She's not dancing, is she?"</p><p>"She isn't," Sombra reassures her and grins. "Yet."</p><p>"Well, at least she is wearing shoes."</p><p>Sombra hums in agreement.</p><p>"Take a look though, she's killing it in that suit."</p><p>"I don't need to look," Widow replies. "All I want to see is up here."</p><p>There is a glint in her eyes that speaks of <em>fun</em>- certainly, she's having fun.</p><p>Sombra clutches her chest in mock surprise.</p><p>"Amor," she starts and solemnly closes her eyes. "<em>No importa que nos separe la distancia, siempre habrá un mismo cielo que nos una</em>."</p><p>Widow cocks her head.</p><p>"Did you come up with that?"</p><p>"No, Pinterest did."</p><p>The third laugh of the evening, a little tipsier now, a little happier still. Widow snorts and all pretense of being distinguished is gone.</p><p>Sombra smiles and doesn't stop when they link their hands together, lean close.</p><p>"Watch out," Widow whispers. "The last person I kissed is dead now."</p><p>"You don't need to sweet-talk me even more, cariño, I'm all yours."</p><p>The widow's kiss <em>is</em> sweet. Not quite deadly. Bubbly, fuzzy feelings that don't fit in crystal glasses.</p><p>"Ah," Widow says as they part, pressing her palm to her slowed heart. "Here I am, the mindless killer, <em>et je suis fou amoreux</em>."</p><p>Seven years ago. Remolded, reconditioned. Slow heart, blue skin. Love doesn't heal every wound. Two years ago her heart skipped a beat and she faltered, staggered, fell.</p><p>"Remember," she asks, "the day you saved my life?"</p><p>Sombra hasn't let go of her hand yet and raises a well-manicured eyebrow.</p><p>"Of course I do," she says. "All 75 instances this could be about."</p><p>Widow's eyes are fixed on the chandelier, on the railing, the parquet floor below.</p><p>"I fell," she says. "Stupid, foolish, me. A wrong step on the roof and there I was, falling. I would have been a pity to land on my target, right? Although, perhaps Talon prefers them dead to me being alive."</p><p>Sombra is quiet and squeezes her hand. It gets no reaction. Widow remembers.</p><p>"But you caught me."</p><p>"The big robot I hacked caught you and you still broke your leg."</p><p>"Did I ever tell you," Widow continues and laughs, not unhappy, "that I'm afraid of heights?"</p><p>Sombra traces the tattoo on Widow's arm, the nightmare, the spider. There are more now. Some flowers. A moon. A tree. Newer and better and her own. The skull on Sombra's shoulder doesn't shine through the scars.</p><p>Widow sips the last of her champagne and her eyes are clear.</p><p>"Mon dieu," she says. "I think Moira is dancing."</p><p>"She has been for a while but I didn't want to interrupt you."</p><p>"It is even more enthusiastic than usual. I did not think that possible."</p><p>"Her arm movement has somehow gotten worse."</p><p>They watch in silence for a while. There are red fingernail marks on the inside of Sombra's hand. Broken glass next to Widow's seat. Faint music, down below. Fainter voices all around.</p><p>"Let's get out of here," Sombra says.</p><p>"We're supposed to stay here as backup."</p><p>"Ah, araña, when have I ever been afraid of consequences?"</p><p>Widow smiles. The sun has set.</p><p>Sombra gets up and pulls her along by the hand, kisses it, leads her to the velvet curtain. They exit stage, together.</p><p> </p>
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